


pacta sunt servanda

by oryx



Category: Suikoden, Suikoden II
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The princess and her shadow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pacta sunt servanda

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moonlight_M3lody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlight_M3lody/gifts).



> i'd originally intended to write some straight-up jowy/jillia, but i've always wanted to explore the watari&jillia relationship and things got a little out of hand so, uh. here we are. basically just a watari fic. OTL  
> hope it's somewhat enjoyable all the same!

There was never anything before the Kage.

 

That is what they tell him. At times he believes it, but there are other times – quiet, in-between moments – when he feels a faint memory stirring in the back of his mind.

 

A woman’s smile, weak and sad. Her lips pressed warm against his forehead.

 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, and that is where the memory fades away.

 

“A man’s thoughts can play tricks upon him,” Ichiro says. He takes a thoughtful puff of his pipe. “Reality is often distorted by the whims of one’s heart. Do you understand, Watari? That is why we of the Kage live only in shadows. By dwelling in the darkness we are not so easily blinded by the light.”

 

Watari nods obediently as he listens, and wonders if his memory is real. He wonders if she was his mother, that woman with the sad smile. He wonders if the colours of her eyes were the same as his.

 

(He wonders why she gave him away.)

 

“Forget what troubles you, boy,” Ichiro says. “The past is of no importance here. Nor the future, for that matter. A man of Dark Wind cares only for the present.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Watari says, and pushes aside his wandering thoughts.

 

There was never anything before the Kage.

 

.

 

.

 

A threat upon the lives of the royal family of Highland has been issued. No one knows from whom it came. King Agares has sent a personal request to the Kage, demanding their assistance as bodyguards until the danger has passed, and when the King himself comes seeking aid one does not refuse.

 

It is Watari’s very first mission.

 

He is assigned to protect the princess – Jillia, her name is, and when he first sees her he thinks that she is beautiful. She is pale and delicate, eyes downcast, long black hair framing her face like a mourning veil. Her dress of dark red silk is the same shade as her lips. There is a sense of melancholy about her, Watari thinks, a deep unhappiness present in her every movement.

 

(“There is only one thing worse than being hated by a man like Luca Blight,” Ichiro says. “And that is being loved by him.”)

 

The princess’s gaze falls on him and her eyes widen.

 

“What is a child doing here?” she asks.

 

Haruna inclines her head respectfully. “He will be your guard until this matter is resolved, Your Highness. I assure you that his skill with a blade is on par with that of our other agents.”

 

“My… my guard? But – ” The princess bends down to look at Watari more closely, astonishment and concern written in her eyes, and he cannot help but stare back. “How old are you, boy?”

 

Watari isn’t sure, and so he looks up at Haruna questioningly.

 

“This past summer was his seventh, Your Highness,” she says.

 

“… Seven summers?” the princess echoes. She takes a step back, then, pressing a hand to her heart, looking shaken to her very core. “And you… expect him to protect me? To come between myself and an assassin if need be?”

 

“That is his mission, yes,” Haruna says. “Age does not matter in the Kage. Only ability. That is our way.”

 

For a moment the princess seems to war with herself, a flush of righteous anger brightening her cheeks. Her fingers twist the fabric of her skirts. But in the end she merely looks away, lips pressed together in a thin line that speaks of resignation. This is not a battle she can win.

 

“So be it,” she says quietly, and motions for Watari to follow.

 

.

 

.

 

During the day he is always with her.

 

In the sitting room he sinks into the dark corners and observes from afar, tracing the pattern of her stitches as she sews. In the dining hall he waits behind her chair, wary of poison, watching the body language of the serving girls for any flicker of guilt or nervousness. In the royal library he slips into the shadows between the shelves, one eye on her and the other roaming, seeking out the slightest movement.

 

She lives an empty life, Watari thinks. Each day the same as the last. She is a bird in a cage, hidden away from the world, waiting for someone to open the lock and set her free.

 

She is not without her impulses, though. Watari almost loses her one evening, when she slips away through a hidden door he hadn’t realized existed. It leads outside the palace, past an overgrown garden to a dilapidated staircase winding up the side of the palace walls. This part of the battlements has long been forgotten, it seems. No enemy has ever braved the murky swampland to the east of L’Renouille, and so the wall has been allowed to crumble, and the sentries posted there are few and far between.

 

The princess climbs the stairs, skirts in hand, and Watari is close behind.

 

It’s an eerily beautiful view. A faint fog is creeping in across the moors, twisting in between the stunted trees that grow there. It’s sunset, and while the sky in the west is still light, stars are already visible on the eastern horizon.

 

“What’s your name?” the princess asks, leaning on the parapet and staring out into the distance. Her voice is soft, barely audible across the battlements, and he moves a few steps closer.

 

“…Watari.”

 

“Watari,” she repeats. “That’s a nice name.” She pauses, frowning at an unvoiced thought. “Aren’t you frightened, Watari? To be guarding me like this? What if someone tried to kill me?”

 

“I would kill them first,” he says, and she looks at him sharply.

 

“How – how can you say that? You’re so young. Do you even know what death is?”

 

He doesn’t. Not yet. Often he sees the other agents of the Kage return home with blood on their blades and a cold look in their eyes. “It’s done,” they say, and he wonders if that’s true. Is anything ever truly finished? Does blood on the edge of a sword really qualify as an “end”? It all seems far too easy.

 

(Later, in an almost-empty corridor, a manservant rushes at Jillia. His face is contorted with rage, and a long, serrated knife gleams in his hand. An assassin in the guise of the help – just as Haruna had suspected.

 

Jillia hardly has time to react before Watari steps out of the shadows, drawing his blade in a swift arc and slashing across the man’s torso, feeling the flesh yield effortlessly beneath his sword. There is a pained shriek, and Watari feels warm blood flecking his skin, and the man collapses in a broken heap on the floor. He twitches for nearly a minute before going still, the life fading from his eyes. Watari stares down at him thoughtfully. He sheathes his blade.

 

Jillia slowly sinks to her knees. There are tears in her eyes, and she presses a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle a scream.

 

“It’s done,” Watari says, but he was right, he was right, it doesn’t feel like an ending at all.)

 

.

 

.

 

She seems frightened of him in the days that follow. Often she will glance over her shoulder, peering into the shadows, her eyes restless and wary as she seeks him out.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says one day, as she kneels in the garden by the east wall and pulls up weeds, smudges of earth dark on her pale fingers. Jillia is not supposed to be outside, Haruna says. Out there she is an easier target. But Watari cannot bring himself to deny her this one simple freedom.

 

“It’s not you I’m afraid of,” she continues. “I swear. I just…” She pauses and sighs, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “I just find it difficult to understand. When I was seven years old I still played with dolls. To think that a child your age could kill a man in cold blood and not even blink, not even cry, not even – ”

 

Jillia breaks off, her voice trembling. She shakes her head as if to regain her composure and reaches out to pull up another weed. Watari takes one look at the plant she’s reaching for and his hand snakes out, grabbing her by the wrist.

 

“That one is poisonous,” he says. “You shouldn’t touch it.”

 

Surprise is written on her face. “You… know about plants, Watari?”

 

“Only the ones that hurt people,” he says quietly, and releases her.

 

She looks at him steadily and her eyes soften, a sad smile gracing her lips. “You have a gentle heart, don’t you?” she says. “I can tell just by looking. This life you lead… Killing from the shadows… I don’t think you’re meant for it.”

 

Watari tilts his head to the side, perplexed. He can’t imagine anything beyond the Kage. _For someone like you,_ Ichiro says, _there is nothing else_.

 

“You should be my knight instead,” Jillia says. She laughs and reaches over; tucks a small purple flower behind his ear. “My personal squire! You’d have a sword forged by the royal blacksmith, and your own special insignia to wear into battle, and everywhere you went people would say, ‘Look, there goes Watari, Jillia’s finest Champion!’”

 

Watari imagines it. He imagines walking through the halls of the palace without having to skulk from dark corner to dark corner. He imagines that fine armor that the knights wear; imagines the weight of it on his shoulders and the feel of it beneath his fingertips. He imagines being noticed by people, having them know his name, seeing respect and admiration in their eyes when they speak to him.

 

(He imagines lifting his sword and cutting away the bonds that keep Jillia imprisoned in this place.)

 

Jillia gets to her feet, brushing the dust from her skirts. “Kneel, Watari,” she says in mock-seriousness, brandishing a freshly-cut flower as if it were a sceptre. He does so without hesitation.

 

“I now dub thee Sir Watari, Honorable Knight of Highland.” She brings the flower down to rest on each of his shoulders in turn. “Dost thou swear to take up arms whenever needed, and to protect those in need, and to serve King and Country with thy head held high? Dost thou swear loyalty to the Blight family forever and always, until thy last dying breath?”

 

She is giggling, hiding her laughter behind her hand, and he knows it’s just a game.

 

But all the same there is a strange ache in Watari’s chest as he says, “Yes, I do. I promise.”

 

.

 

.

 

Haruna tries to explain the war to him, when it comes.

 

“It’s about power, stupid boy,” she says, glancing up from sharpening her blade. “Everything is about power in the end. Highland merely wishes to expand its reach. That’s all there is to it. The attack on the Unicorn Brigade was nothing but a ruse, meant to stir up support among the populace. Haven’t you been paying attention to Ichiro’s reports?”

 

Watari has. But even if he were older, he thinks, the schemes of kings and lords would still be far beyond his comprehension. For him, there is only the here and now. For him, there is only his mission.

 

And his mission has not changed.

 

Lord Luca orders for Jillia to come with him when he marches out to the front lines. He claims it will be safer for her at the Highland encampment than at the palace, and perhaps this is true, but Watari can see the way Jillia’s eyes harden as she bows her head.

 

“He wishes to keep me close,” she says later, as they sit in a dark alcove in the library. “He knows that I’ve seen through his schemes. If I were anyone else I would be dead by now.”

 

“I will protect you,” Watari says. “Even from Lord Luca.”

 

Jillia looks at him for a long moment and then smiles faintly, reaching over to ruffle his hair. For the first time in a long time Watari finds himself thinking of that old memory – of the woman who kissed his forehead and said she was sorry. The vague outline of her face is lost, now. He can no longer remember even the colour of her hair.

 

(Instead, when he closes his eyes, he sees Jillia in her place.)

 

“Let us hope it does not come to that,” Jillia says softly. “For your sake and for mine.”

 

.

 

.

 

She hides the two spies from Jowston.

 

He doesn’t understand it at first. He can’t fathom why the princess would take such a risk. They are the enemy. He crouches in the shadows of the tent, barely daring to breathe, apprehension wound like a coiled spring inside him. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword as he waits for one of them to make a move. Waits for them to draw their weapons and turn against her.

 

But they never do. She pours them both a cup of tea, and they sit at the table and speak in hushed tones, too quiet for Watari to hear save for a few fractured phrases. There is tension in the air, surely, but there is no hatred, and little by little Watari can feel his own wariness fading. Jillia’s expression is determined and severe. Her knuckles are white as she grips her teacup. Watari hears the words “brother” and “evil” and slowly the pieces begin to come together in his mind. Haruna, telling him of Highland’s quest for power with a cautious edge to her voice. Jillia, bitterness hidden behind her tight-lipped smiles as she curtsies before the throne. Ichiro, speaking of Luca Blight like one might speak of a demon.

 

Jowston has never been the enemy.

 

The spies leave once it seems safe, and Jillia sits alone at the table, staring into the dregs of her tea, her hands trembling ever so slightly.

 

She may not be a warrior, Watari thinks, but she is brave in her own way.

 

.

 

.

 

Lord Luca brings someone back with him, when he returns from the front. A young man with blond hair and a solemn set to his features. Jowy, his name is, the less fortunate son of the noble house Atreides, all of sixteen years old with eyes that look much older. He will be joining the good fight against Jowston, Lord Luca announces, an eerie grin twisting his mouth. With his help, they have already begun to turn this sorry excuse for a war in Highland’s favor.

 

Watari feels a jolt of recognition within him when he first lays eyes on Jowy’s face.

 

“Milady,” he whispers, but Jillia holds up a hand to silence him. She is wide-eyed – shock registering beneath her usual placid smile – and he knows that she recognizes him too. Serving tea to a spy and speaking of coup d’etat is not something one so easily forgets. But her surprise smoothes over in an instant, her mask of composure slipping back into place, and there is not a trace of emotion to give her away as Jowy drops to one knee before her and kisses her hand.

 

Later, when no one is looking, she turns to Watari and presses a finger to her lips.

 

.

 

.

 

As the princess’s shadow, Watari is privy to many secret things.

 

He glimpses covert hand signals and overhears coded messages. He watches courtly intrigue play out before him – each glance meaningful, each word carefully chosen, each fanciful gesture open to fifteen methods of interpretation.

 

If asked, he could recall the exact moment in which Jillia Blight fell in love and Highland fell into ruin.

 

But in the end he is just a shadow, and no one will ever think to ask.

 

Haruna appears at his side one evening, stepping out of the darkness with practiced ease. “Pack your things, boy,” she says. “We’re leaving tomorrow morning.”

 

“… Why?” he asks, and Haruna gives him a disbelieving look.

 

“‘Why?’” she echoes. “Why do you think? Highland is on the verge of collapse, stupid boy. Soon enough there will be no one left to pay us for our services. When it comes down to it, we of the Kage are mercenaries, and a mercenary is nothing without a client. Or have you forgotten this?”

 

“No,” Watari says, but Haruna’s accusation is not entirely baseless. Somewhere along the line, guarding Jillia has become less of a job and more of a _purpose_ – a driving force behind his very existence. A part of him, the part that is still young and naïve and foolish, assumed that he would always be by her side. He cannot imagine returning to the Kage headquarters, taking another mission, guarding another person, a person whose face and voice and mannerisms are unfamiliar to him. A person who may be cruel or hateful. A person who may never smile.

 

A person who is not Jillia.

 

“We set out at oh eight hundred hours,” Haruna says, and melts back into the darkness. “Be there or we’re leaving you behind.”

 

The next morning Jillia rises early to water her flowers. Tensions have been high in L’Renouille as reports flood in of devastating Highland losses, the Jowston army pressing ever closer, darkening the horizon like an oncoming storm. King Jowy has been visibly troubled as of late, brow permanently furrowed, the kind of worry lines one might see on the face of an old man weary of the world. ( _This is what I wanted_ , he says to Jillia one afternoon, a fragment of whispered intimacy that Watari cannot help but overhear. _I knew it would be difficult. I knew I would have regrets. And yet..._ Here he breaks off, and says nothing more, but his meaning is written plainly in his eyes.)

 

But despite the growing anxiety pressing down upon the residents of the palace, Jillia still tends her garden every day. It is the little things, Watari thinks, that keep people sane in times such as these.

 

In the garden Watari reaches out hesitantly and touches her hand.

 

“Goodbye,” he says softly.

 

She starts and turns towards him, but he does not see her face. He does not want to. He is already sinking back into the shadows of an open doorway, trying to ignore the strange, aching tightness in his throat.

 

“Watari?” she calls, confusion and worry tingeing her voice, and he wonders if anyone will ever speak his name in such a way again.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

His tenth summer is waning when he leaves the Kage.

 

Ayame tries to stop him.

 

“You will be tracked down,” she says, almost pleadingly. It is unseemly, for an agent of the Kage to display any kind of affection for another. But Ayame, being a year his senior, used to watch over him when he was first learning the ropes. She was the one who taught him how to survive in this place – to obey orders and keep his eyes lowered and never, ever talk back. She was the one who helped him with chores and shared her meager rations when supplies were low and taught him sleight of hand tricks with a hidden blade.

 

If he had a sister, he wonders if she would be anything like Ayame.

 

“They will send someone after you, and they will hunt you to the ends of the earth,” she hisses. “Don’t you understand, Watari? Why are you doing this??”

 

He thinks for a long moment.

 

“Because,” he says finally. “This life… Killing from the shadows… I don’t think I’m meant for it.”


End file.
